


Nadir

by wynnebat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Charlie Weasley, Brothers, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-03 00:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1725218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the funeral, all Charlie can do is pick up the pieces George has fallen into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nadir

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [The Epicness that is Charlie Weasley Competition](https://www.fanfiction.net/topic/44309/68198253/1/).

They've never learned to deal with death, the Weasley kids, the sons and daughter of Molly and Arthur. Charlie's too grown to call himself a kid, and Bill's that and already married, but the rest of them, they're kids. They shouldn't have to deal with this, Charlie thinks as he stares at Fred's gray headstone. Ginny is crying silently in a conjured chair, Percy is with Mum and Dad, Ron is leaning against his girlfriend, and George, George who's not a twin anymore, is kneeling, sobbing, tearing at the grass next to the grave. Charlie can't protect them from this. He's their older brother and he should, but he can't, and the failure almost breaks him.

But then he shares a look with Bill, a nod, an understanding between older brothers, and he picks himself up again. There's work to do, Charlie, he tells himself. Concentrate on that. In the corner of his eye, he sees Bill join Ginny, comfort her in a way her boyfriend can't. In a family of seven, you can't help but have favorites. The twins, the twin, George, has always been his.

He drops next to George like a stone, like his heart when he learned of Fred's death, like a stupid brother who isn't much of a brother at all, and takes George's hands in his. They're too pale next to his tanned ones, too skinny and dirty. He picks strands of grass from underneath George's nails. George doesn't react. Charlie doesn't think George even realizes he's there.

That's fine. Good, actually, because he doesn't know if George becomes a brawler in his grief. The twins have always been a more like him in everything, so he thinks George'll turn catatonic, not aggressive, now. He's never wanted to find out, but he does. He's right.

Eventually, George lets him pick him up, drag him along to a good Apparition point. Charlie looks back for a moment, wanting to see if anyone else needs side-alonging, but everyone is lost to their grief.

The jolt of Apparition doesn't jar George out of his state. He's not even crying anymore. Just staring down. Charlie wonders what he's seeing, if he's seeing anything at all. If he himself should be like George; is he heartless for not breaking down? For crying quietly, almost soundlessly? People deal with grief differently, the book on grief he bought said, and Charlie comforts himself with the phrase like a mantra as he drags George upstairs. He stops next to the twins' former room for a second, then takes George to the room Charlie shares with Bill instead.

"C'mon," he tells George as he pulls George's shirt up. He'll sleep better without it. "Raise your arms."

George stares back at him for a long moment, then does as Charlie asks. Charlie lets out a breath of relief. Slowly, they get George out of his layers of clothes. Charlie could do a spell, make it faster, but it's better that George moves a little himself. Maybe. He's doing what feels right, what his friends did for him when he lost a clutch of dragonets. The analogy is bad, because nothing could be compared to this. Charlie doesn't think about that. He tries not to think about anything, especially not Fred.

Soon George is under the covers and dead to the world again, and Charlie's on the neighboring bed. He doesn't think he'll sleep, but his body knows what he needs better than his mind, and it shuts down a few hours later.

When he wakes up again, George is gone.

Charlie doesn't panic, but it's a near thing.

George is fine, Charlie tells himself. Just because Fred is gone doesn't mean George will go with him. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. It's all going to be just fine.

"Charlie?" The door's opened, and Ginny's looking in. By the paleness of her face and the shadows under her eyes, she must have slept less than he has. Is he being too uncaring? No, the aching wound in his chest accounts for something. He's just always been able to sleep well. Would Fred have wanted him to lose more sleep because of his death?

"Charlie?" she asks again, more worriedly this time.

"I'm fine, Gin," he says, standing up and wrapping an arm around her. She's grown since he last saw her. Not in height, but in something else. She's more womanly now. He thinks, Fred isn't going to grow anymore, won't laugh and poke at Charlie for being shorter than his younger brother, won't ask him to tell him dragon stories.

Charlie's not fine at all, but then, none of them are. They'll be fine one day, the books on grief say, and he has to trust that because otherwise he'll never be able to get out of bed again.

It's fine, fine, fine, even after Mum asks if won't he check on "Fr—oh, my poor—on George's shop".

She asks him in particular because he's the most put-together of the family. On the outside, at least.

Sensible, reliable Charlie. That's him. He's always been practical Charlie, the one who'll deal with your problems without a fuss. Though, lifespan-wise, his job isn't practical, but that's one thing he won't give up for his mother's watery eyes.

She sends him off with a pot pie and a salad and an apple tart, because he's still a growing boy in her eyes. That, and the night of the funeral she cooked more food than the entire Weasley family would be able to eat in a week.

He leaves George in Ginny's capable hands and tries not to worry about him for the next few hours.

The shop isn't glaringly orange anymore, and a censoring charm has been applied to the words on the windowpane. The merchandise is covered by black cloth. It's almost as though the shop died along with Fred.

Charlie breathes deeply, once, twice, three times. There. That's better. He can almost be calm about this now. All he does is go inside and make sure that no one's broken in, and no one has. He strengthens the protective charms on the store, removes the censoring charm. After a moment, he removes the blinding, sparkling words as well. There's no need to remind everyone of U-no-poo this soon after the battle. Maybe once day, people will be able to joke about his name again, but for now it's too raw. Everything's too raw.

He goes back, checks on George, and his heart stops racing. George is fine. He isn't dying. He's not like Fred. Breathe.

They talk a little. Mainly, Charlie talks about dragons, because that's all he can talk about without starting to think about the red-haired elephant in the room, every room in the Burrow, and George nods at the right places.

"If you like them so much, just go back to Romania already," George says at the end. It's cutting. It's petty. It's some emotion, finally, from George. Charlie doesn't let the words hurt. There are worse things than words.

"One day, yeah," he says instead.

Two days later, Dad goes back to work. The gloomy atmosphere at the Burrow is getting to him. Charlie can't blame him. He wants to go, too, but he knows if he goes now he'll drown in his own grief and won't come back for months. His family needs him here.

Two weeks later, Ron leaves with his girlfriend for Australia. Charlie doesn't know why, and to be honest, he doesn't care enough to ask. He's going stir-crazy inside the Burrow, and the fact that people are leaving while he's staying makes him want to break down the walls.

He can leave. He really can.

But then Mum looks at him with watery eyes, or Dad gets home with his back stooped and his hands shaking, or George starts crying in the middle of the night when he thinks Charlie's asleep. The last one more than anything makes him stay. George still hasn't done anything at all with his shop, so Charlie decides to be useful and checks with the goblins about it. There aren't any complications. Charlie closes George's account for the time being.

He talks to George every day, each day a little more. Sometimes, George even talks back. And when he's not with George, he's with Mum, or with Dad. There's grief on every side of him and he's drowning, but he's not allowed to sink just yet. George needs him.

The time comes when Mum is able to get through meals without tearing up every time she sees the empty space where Fred's chair used to be. Charlie feels both happy and sick to his stomach. Are they slowly forgetting Fred? Should they mourn him even more? Should they lament every second, every minute, every hour? Fred deserves a mourning period of forever, but Charlie's so, so tired of grief.

Fred's chair is now in Fred and George's old room. Charlie doesn't think anyone's opened it yet except for Dad. Maybe no one ever will. Charlie can't decide if he wants the room to be demolished or kept as a shrine. It's not his decision to make, anyway. He's going to leave soon.

A month later, his boss floo-calls him again.

"You're a good man," his boss tells him, "But to every dragon's bone, there is a hippogriff's feather."

Charlie takes it as a phrase of comfort that got lost in translation, because his boss' next words are, "You have a week to decide if you're coming back or staying on the isles, because dragons wait for no wizard."

He's been expecting that for a while, and he tells his boss he'll see him soon. Still, it's not his boss who jars him into action. As always, it's his mother.

She's been getting better, more active, crying less. And that's good, really good, but the fact that she's using his love life to distract herself isn't.

Mum's looking at him with that look, the one that caused him so much trouble after school. She says, "Your older brother's married now, Charlie. Don't you think it's time for you to find a nice girl, too?"

That's all she needs to say to get him to run to the continent, same as he had a decade ago. He's never regretted it, but sometimes, he wonders what it would be like to continue this conversation instead of brushing it off once again. To tell his mother that she shouldn't be trying so hard to get him married, because he's not the marrying type. Not to women, not to men. Maybe one day, he'll tell her. But right now, it's too soon. She doesn't need his personal issues on top of Fred's death.

And as he tells her, "Maybe not now. I'm kind of busy at the reserve, too busy for romance, that's me," he knows he never will tell her. Some things are just too personal to share even with your Mum. But it's fine, it's all fine.

He packs his bag that same day. Somehow, all his belongings have meandered around the Burrow, and it feels like he's leaving home for the first time again.

Charlie doesn't feel bad about leaving his mother, doesn't let himself feel bad. She's in his father's capable if shaky hands, and she has Bill only a floo-call away. Ginny, too, though she's busy with the reconstruction of Hogwarts. And Percy, who's all but moved back to the Burrow.

But he's most worried about George, because he's like a dragonet now. Quick to anger, moody, lashing out at everyone. Charlie can deal with it. Mum can't.

Maybe that's why he asks, "Ever seen a baby dragon?" He knows George hasn't.

George looks up from staring at the fire. Charlie can still see the flames in his eyes, eyes that are unfocused from staring for so long.

"No," George replies, and returns to staring at the fire. He's too close, but Charlie can't tell him to move because George will just get closer.

Charlie wonders if he should just leave it there, just leave George there. He half wants to. He's tired of dealing with George's grief. He could just leave George to the rest of his family to deal with. Except, he remembers Fred and George's identical grins as they made a special dragon-themed firework go off in the Burrow's back yard. They designed it just for him.

Sighing, he continues, "You could if you came back to Romania with me."

That gets George's attention.

"It's not much, but I have a cottage there. You could come with me to work sometimes, or just… do stuff…" He can't say 'heal', because that's too much like admitting George has a problem healing. The air in Romania might help him. The lack of everything Fred might too.

George doesn't say anything, just stares back at the fire. Eventually, he must get sick of Charlie staring at him, because he growls, "Fuck off."

Charlie thinks he should get some sort of reward for this.

But he does, in fact, fuck off. He goes to the garden where Mum is and tells her he's taking her son away for a little while. She acts like it's forever, and cries some more.

Charlie's really sick of tears, both his family's and his own. He's sick of everything now. Romania will do him a lot of good, too.

"You can't just leave, Charlie. You could stay here. Get a job, a wife, a family."

A _real_ job, is what she isn't saying.

"I need to go back, Mum. And George, if he'll come with me, needs a break from here." That's not the most diplomatic way of saying it. It's still true. "He'll come back," he assures her. "He has his shop here. And you're all here. He'll be back soon. And as for me, I'll come by for Christmas. I'll even stay the full two weeks."

He isn't sure if he can deal with them all even in half a year, but he'll try. His family's so loving and caring that he feels pressed under the strain of their love.

In the end, she lets him leave, knowing she could never make him stay in the first place. Dad claps him on the back and says, "If you need to, go."

Mum says, "We'll always be here for you, sweetheart."

It's how he knows he has the best family in the world, even if it's missing one person.

.

The portkey takes them to the town square of a small town called Vama. It's a Romanian Wizarding village; it has to be, considering it's the closest town to the biggest dragon reserve in the world. A few miles north, there's a huge, invisible barrier that keeps dragons in and Muggles out. But for now, they need to walk two miles to get to Charlie's house. He could Apparate them, but he needs to run some errands, and it's the first time George has been outside in weeks.

"Cozy," George says, looking around.

Charlie shrugs. "It doesn't need to be any bigger."

The town is nothing like London, and Main Street is a beggar's corner compared to Diagon Alley. But it has a certain old-world charm Charlie likes, one that George can't appreciate yet.

Charlie feels like a father might as he drags a reluctant George along with him to the baker's, the bookstore, the general store, and the dragonologist's shop. In his heavily accented Romanian, he introduces George to everyone. George plays the part of a sane man and manages to be half-convincing.

Soon they're nearing Charlie's small cottage, the last house on the street and the closest to the reserve, and Charlie breathes a sigh of relief. It's home like the Burrow isn't anymore, and he's relieved to see it standing after his unexpected leave of absence.

Inside, it has two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a sitting room.

"Where's the bathroom?" George asks when Charlie finishes the tour.

Charlie points out the back door. Past that, there's an outhouse. It's on his list of things he'd like to do, to get an indoor bathroom installed, but for now he has to Apparate to the outhouse each day. He'll probably get it done in another decade, once he pays off his loans on the house. With the loans, there's only a pittance left over each month from his paycheck for more than the bare necessities, but the house is his and his alone, which is all that matters.

As they eat dinner that day, George makes some conversation. Charlie would be happy if it weren't on such an awkward subject.

"Fred and—well." George scowls. "Fuck it. Fred and I always thought you were hiding a girlfriend here."

"No," Charlie says.

A glimmer of the old George comes back as he wheedles, "A boyfriend?"

Charlie's almost sad to say, "No."

George sleeps off the portkey lag while Charlie goes to work. He's welcomed back with open arms, and remembers why he loves it here so much. He spends a week working from before the sun comes up to after it sets, trying to drown himself in work. He almost doesn't notice that George doesn't get up from bed except to sometimes eat. But apart from gentle shoves, Charlie can't do much except limit his hours on the job.

Now that he can't drown himself in work, Charlie tries the same with alcohol. It burns as it goes down his throat, but it's no more than the pain already there. For a few hours a night, he can forget about George's grief and focus on his own.

He couldn't drink at his parents' house, because despite everything he is a child to them, but here he's free to drink until the tavern closes, and for a while after that because the owners' daughter is sweet on him. George tells him through glares and grunts that he doesn't approve, then comes with him the next day to down almost as much. Charlie's tired of trying to be a good influence and doesn't stop him.

Unlike him, George isn't a somber drunk. He's energetic, agitated, and more than a little angry. Spiteful, hurtful, in pain.

"Where were you?" George half-yells one day. The question has been building inside him for weeks, Charlie knows. "Where were you when Fred fucking died? Why couldn't you have bloody done something? Stop trying to fix me when you're just as useless yourself."

George has a good sneer. Charlie has an even better grip as he drags George out of the tavern and into the cool night air.

"I was working," he answers. He can't look at George.

"You didn't do anything at all in the war. Why do you even think you can—"

"Because I'm your brother and I love you," he says before George can say something he'll find too hard to forgive. Fred, he remembers, was never as good with cutting words as George. The twins used to even each other out, and now it's lopsided. George is flailing.

"I helped smuggle Muggle-borns out of Britain," he tells George for the first time. "Housed a few myself, and got more jobs at the various reserves. Paper-pushing, mostly, because they were former Ministry workers."

George is shocked, hurt. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't see a point. The war is over." Even if George's personal war is not. But as for the final battle, "I was with my dragons, on my shift, and by the time the alert came it was too late. The battle was almost over, Fred was dead. I still came as soon as I could. Do you really think it's not going to haunt me for the rest of my life? That I'm not going to feel guilty for being here while Fred isn't? I could hate myself for it. But that wouldn't change anything."

They walk in silence for a moment as Charlie thinks back on what he's said. He's not good with words, not as smart of some of his brothers, but he hopes to Merlin that he's finally reached George.

"I don't blame you," George says almost twenty minutes later.

Charlie lets out a breath. "Then don't blame yourself, either. No one blames you for not saving him. Get up and live the life you would've wanted for Fred. Because I know he would've wanted even better for you."

And then they walk through the front door, and George collapses on the couch, and he's sobbing, and Charlie pats him on the back. It's all going to be fine, he thinks. It has to be.

Slowly, things even out. They don't get drunk anymore, but they do drink. George starts a casual friendship with a guy at the bar, and starts going out more.

Now that George willingly goes outside, if only to the tavern, Charlie gives him tasks to do during the day. Around the house, then around the village. Small things, like checking in on his elderly neighbors and pulling weeds.

George uncovers Charlie's old cauldron and cleans it, makes it usable again. Charlie comes home to an experimental potion that's ruined his carpet and grins so hard it hurts. For a while after that, he and George talk about Fred more than they make potions. It's okay, though. It's better than okay, because it feels good to remember Fred as a grinning teenager and not as a corpse.

George does go back to potion-making, and sketches some plans for future projects. They're small things for now, but Charlie imagines them being mass-produced in a few years. There's no end to his pride in his little sibling.

He does eventually take George to the reserve, and shows him the dragons and dragonets. If George notices that Charlie's taken to treating him the same way he treats his dragonets, he doesn't comment on it.

They come back smelling like dragon dung, but the tavern owner's used to things like that, and Charlie watches George awkwardly flirt with the girl of the man who owns the tavern. Fred had always been better with the ladies, Charlie remembers.

The girl used to hold hope that one day Charlie would see her over his beer, but with the way she's smiling at George, that's changed. It bruises Charlie's ego a bit, but that's fine because George finally starts putting effort into his appearance when they go out. Charlie tells her George is available when she asks, and arranges a date for them.

For his date, George cuts his nails and his hair, and irons his robes.

He even keeps his hygiene up when their relationship falls apart two weeks later. No one's upset or surprised, and George goes on to date two more girls.

Together, he and Charlie learn a good repertoire of Russian insults from the girls, and Charlie shows George the finer points of pool.

Three months after they left Britain, George isn't completely healed. But he's far along the road to it, and he can deal with his grief alone now. And on the bad days, the Burrow will be close by. The future looks like a good place now. They've survived the lowest point, and they're going to be just fine.

George smiles back at him as he holds onto the portkey back to Britain, and, yeah, Charlie thinks, he's done a damn fine job being a good brother.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Complete; no sequel planned.


End file.
